Neath the Trailing Rose
by paperwingsandbrokenlegs
Summary: There is a garden, with crumbling stone walls and roses growing wild. Sherlock is always here; always glad to see him. Sherlock does not know that John has been seeing him in secret and somewhere out there, Moriarty looms over them all.


_Disclaimer: Don't own anything; everything of note belongs to SACD, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the Beeb. _

XXXXX

The garden, if the wildforest of roses can be called that, is like nothing he has seen before. A crumbling wall is visible through the bracken but there is nothing to show him a way out of this living prison of leaves and flowers, if one exists at all. Somewhere, a spring or fountain bubbles gently. A light mist hangs over the world and John remembers his mother's superstitious whispers about magic hours and fairy folk. Ever the soldier, he takes a step forward and comes to a halt immediately. The limbs of the rose bushes are thorned and they draw blood.

Then something rustles.

A bullet in the desert makes a believer of an atheist. Perhaps teleportations to wild gardens makes a superstitious fool of a logical man.

When he sees the small body emerge from a thicket, lithe and pale as marble, he does for a moment think it is one of the Fair Folk. The creature brushes leaves from his hair and upon seeing him, straightens immediately; in his eyes, an undisguised glimmer of fear. John cannot make the words to comfort him because the creature that he has mistaken for Faerie is a dark-haired and ice-eyed child, lips marked with a distinct Cupid's bow.

"What are you doing here?"

His voice is unbroken, but the self-assuredness, the impudence, is unmistakeably _Sherlock_.

"I don't know."

Eyes narrow. Forehead scrunches. If there ever was any doubt, his inimitable thinking face dispels it.

"What do you mean?"

"I think I'm lost."

The eyes narrow again, but John is used to this and lets Sherlock look into his eyes; lets him search for whatever he is looking for.

"Do you want me to show you the way out?"

His mother's voice is in his head again, warning him against any dealings with the Fair Folk. If this is a fairy trick though, they've chosen the right tack; he can't not trust Sherlock.

"Yes, please."

"You have to help me first." Quick as a flash, he disappears into the thicket again and John is about to cry out in dismay when he comes back.

"Come on, then. What is your name, anyway?"

"John." It is not a good idea to give the Fair Folk so precious a thing as a name, but it slips out of him the instant the question is asked.

"I'm Sherlock. Follow me."

And follow John does.

XXXXX

The fountain is sad, he thinks. Old and sad. It makes him solemn.

Sherlock has no such compunctions. He climbs up on the edge and picks up a glass bottle. "I need to get a sample of the mulch at the bottom, but it's too deep and I can't reach."

John takes the bottle, rolls up his sleeve and plunges his arm into the icy water.

XXXXX

"What was your home like?"

Sherlock looks up from his newspaper. "Why?"

In his time with Sherlock, John has learnt the art of telling half-truths. "I had a dream about my home last night. Just curious, I guess."

"You could ask Mycroft. He'll happily bore you to tears with a history of the house dating back to its inception as a mud hut in the Dark Ages." He disappears behind the newspaper.

"We had a garden, you know. I once grew a batch of largest tomatoes you could ever see. The secret is to use mulch as fertiliser."

"Fascinating." His tone suggests that it is anything but.

Sherlock doesn't know.

John chides himself. It was a dream; he'd been absurd to imagine it was anything else.

XXXXX

Delicate pink rosebuds wink at him from the bushes. He knows instantly where he is and feels no fear this time around. Without thinking about it, he starts looking for Sherlock.

It is not a long search. He spots a dark mop of hair peeping out from behind a stone bench by the wall. He walks up to the boy and stands behind him. So occupied is he by whatever is under the bench that he does not notice the shadow John has cast over him.

"Sherlock."

"Shhhh!" Sherlock does not even start at his presence, but demands silence in an urgent whisper. John obliges, taking a step back. Sherlock peeks under the bench. Whatever he sees is clearly to his liking, because a small smile graces his features and he beckons John over. John obliges again, stepping quietly over. Sherlock places a finger on his lips, and then extends his hand and points to something under the bench. John looks and sees the back end of a wild rabbit. It is digging, unaware that it is being watched. John suddenly remembers a line about God blessing a rabbit's hindquarters. The air is cool enough to chill his skin through his jumper, and Sherlock wears only white shirt, unbuttoned as always at the collar. Yet he stays stock-still, following the rabbit's every movement with his eyes alone.

They watch the gentle creature in silence until the hole is deep enough that they can no longer see the fluffy whiteness of his tail. Then Sherlock speaks.

"There'll be kittens soon."

"That's lovely."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"I don't know. I keep getting lost and ending up here."

"How do you even get in? You should be too big to get in through the gaps. Mycroft and Father are."

John waits for him to realise that he is not in fact crawling through the gaps to get here, but young Sherlock is evidently not as adept as reading people as his older self.

"Then again, Mummy should be too big too, but the roses never cut her."

"I'm not that big. You'll grow taller than me soon."

Sherlock shrugs. "Maybe. But nevermind that. I found something by the gates. Come along, I'll show you."

And with that, he turns and dashes off into a thicket of dark green leaves and even darker thorns. John follows; the thorns catch in his jumper, scratch his face and draw blood from his hands. Still, he presses on, if for nothing else than to not be in the same category as Mycroft.

Then the bushes part and they are-

Back where they started.

"That was the east wall. This is the west wall. The stonework is the same on all four points of the compass."

"Twelve and already a smart-arse." The words are muttered under his breath, but in the quiet of the garden they carry, and Sherlock hears him. A hint of pink appears on the highest point of Sherlock's cheeks. "I'm ten."

John is this close to apologising for the remark, but the corners of Sherlock's mouth are turned up; he seems to have recognised it for the compliment that it is.

"So what did you find?"

It is the rotting corpse of a dormouse. They spend the afternoon discussing possible causes of death. Sherlock takes it as seriously as he does his cases and John throws in a silly suggestion every now and then; it makes Sherlock huff until he realises he's being wound up, at which point he joins John in laughing at himself.

XXXXX

"Sherlock!"

The hockey stick whistles through thin air where the detective's head was a mere moment before. The wielder of the hockey stick then doubles over as Sherlock drives his extremely hard and bony shoulder into his solar plexus. John would come over and give him a hand, but he's too occupied trying to keep another thug from sticking him with a pocket knife. In the corner of his eye, he sees more men coming at them.

"John, duck!"

He does. The hockey stick flies through the air and hits his assailant in the face, causing the man to stumble and drop his weapon. In spite of John's inherent protectiveness, Sherlock is more than capable of holding his own in a fight.

"Come along, John."

And then they're running.

The wind whips his jacket, behind him he can hear the footfalls of very dangerous men and he's going to be late for dinner with Sarah, but all John can see is Sherlock's back; those long legs gracefully carrying the detective away from danger.

They come to a stop two streets down from the Yard, and John is panting hard. Fortunately, they seem to have lost their pursuers.

"Who were they again?"

Sherlock, slightly breathless, shrugs. "Hoxton gang. Thugs for hire. Question is, who hired them?"

His eyes suddenly light up. "Maybe it's someone new. Oh, that's just marvellous!" There is undisguised glee in his voice gleeful, very much like a child who has made a new friend. "A new enemy, John! Isn't that exciting?"

All John can think of in that moment is the rabbit.

"All the world is your enemy, Prince of a Thousand Enemies, and when they catch you, they will kill you. But first, they must catch you."

Sherlock looks surprised. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Fine. I read it somewhere. It just seemed to suit, is all."

"Hmmm."

They stand together quietly while the adrenaline rush wears off. John contemplates the wonderful weirdness of his world, where an outing to buy a new toaster can turn into a dash for their lives from enemies unknown. He wonders whether the child who saw a dead mouse as a murder mystery would have known that this would be his life. Sherlock's voice cuts into his thoughts.

"You'd be Hazel, I think."

He knows the story like the back of his hand and gets what Sherlock is actually saying. The remark is delivered in the same flippant tone, but John sees what is not said in words; Sherlock named him counterpart to the most loyal, most brave and most good of characters. His heart clenches, and his resolve to never allow that other one to lay a hand on his detective becomes stronger, fiercer.

"And you?"

Sherlock's eyes glint in the moonlight and he looks predatory. John has seen that look often enough to realise that someone somewhere will soon be rueing the day they crossed Sherlock Holmes.

"The Black Rabbit."

XXXXX

For once, Sherlock is not the manic ball of energy he usually is. John doesn't find him because he's rustling through the bushes or splashing in the fountain, but is led to him by soft strains of the violin.

He is standing by the western wall with his violin tucked under his chin, a slip of pale skin and cream shirt, silhouetted by the dark green leaves of a trailing rose bush. The plant's tendrils seem to extend around him, as if to claim him for its own. John takes a step forward, dried leaves crunching underfoot, and Sherlock looks up. A smile crosses his face.

"What are you playing?"

"Schumann's Träumerei." He raises the bow to the strings and draws a tender note from the violin.

"I'm testing the theory that music has a positive effect on the growth of plants."

"Hasn't all the research done essentially confirmed the theory?"

Sherlock very nearly pouts. "Bah. I can test it for myself. Who needs their conclusions?"

John adds the remark to the mental list of habits and traits Sherlock developed from his childhood; so far, it seems that his most annoying habits were well cemented before he left the family home. He ignores the little voice in the back of his head telling him that this is a dream and that the real Sherlock could have a very different history.

"Is there anything you want me to play?"

"Pachelbel?" The look of horror that crosses Sherlock's face has him giggling helplessly. "Or maybe Les Cygne?"

"You're worse than Mrs Whistan. She wants me to play Trepak from the Nutcracker at talent night." He sniffs, as if it were beneath his dignity to play such a well-loved song. Or to perform for parents. Sherlock does a lot of things for attention, but playing the violin is not one of them. John has often retired to his room when Sherlock paces and mutters, knowing that he will hear violin merely moments after he is out of sight.

"Something from Kreisler would be nice." He's learning to recognise the different composers and their works, though this is less from hearing Sherlock play and more from clearing up his sheet music.

There is something in the boy's eyes which tells John that he's made a good impression. He drags the bow over the string, and the violin sings for him a low, sweet note. "This is Liebesleid."

John sits on the grass and lets the music wash over him.

XXXXX

A dreadful squalling noise rouses him from his sleep and John curses. There has not been a case for weeks and Sherlock is in a right strop. He, on the other hand, has had a full day making up for time lost at the clinic and tomorrow heralds yet another long day. He needs his sleep.

The violin screeches again, producing a sound that would be the envy of amorous cats everywhere. There is little use stuffing the gap beneath the door or using earplugs; he's tried before. The neighbours will undoubtedly complain to Mrs Hudson tomorrow. Why they haven't tried to run Sherlock over in their impressive Range Rover yet is one of the mysteries of the world.

Tea. If he must deal with the overgrown child in the living room, he needs a good cup of tea, perhaps enhanced with some of the Armagnac Harry had given him for his birthday.

Sherlock, for once, seems somewhat sorry for waking him up. When he lowers his creaking body into his chair, cradling the warm mug of brandy tea, the younger man lowers his bow and wrinkles his nose.

"There's more brandy in your mug than tea. Bit dramatic, even for you."

"Yeah, well, would you prefer me to bang my misery out on a couple of drums?"

"We don't have drums," Sherlock says absently, fiddling with the pegs.

For a moment, the flat is gloriously silent. There are no cars driving by outside, no chatter or footsteps and certainly no tortured violin. John sips his brandy tea.

"Is there anything you'd like me to play?"

The tone of the question, the barest hint of shyness, is so perfectly matched to the question he's been asked before that John is stunned for a moment. He's come to see them almost as two different people now; his Sherlock and the garden Sherlock. He remembers a song played just for him, beneath trailing rose and aged stone walls.

"Uhh...Kreisler?"

Sherlock pulls the bow across the strings and elicits from his violin the same low, sweet note. No, almost the same. There was something more open, more carefree in the younger's playing; this one has a darker and more melancholic undertone, barely perceptible, but there nevertheless.

"For my blogger, Kreisler's Liebesleid."

John closes his eyes as music slowly fills the room. He awakes to find the morning light streaming through the windows, disoriented and unsure of himself; unsure whether he's awake or dreaming.

XXXXX

_Hello!_

_This is me reverting to type and doing a sort-of AU in a verse that's so beautiful precisely because it is grounded in reality. _

_I am aware that there has recently been a story in this vein either on this site or on LJ. This is not a rip-off of that - it's taken such bloody ages to write that it no longer seems to be the fresh idea I thought it would be when I wrote it :( __This is my first experience of hive mind, though. _

_And to think Lestrade doesn't feature here! He's the only character I can confidently write in the Sherlock!verse. I've tried to keep Sherlock and John as true to character as is possible without being Moffat, but I can't seem to judge the end result. Some constructive criticism on this point would be lovely. _

_In fact, do drop me a line - tell me what worked and what didn't. _

_Well, that's it, I guess. _

_Cheerio!_


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